


Admit it Already

by dyingpoet



Series: Sprace one shots [41]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Modern Era, Sickfic, spot is a big babey when hes sick and no one can tell me otherwise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-28 03:12:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18202736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dyingpoet/pseuds/dyingpoet
Summary: Spot swears on his life he never gets sick, recent events dispute this claim





	Admit it Already

**Author's Note:**

> done for a fic trade w @mathmajorhiggins on tumblr!!! i hope u like it bb!!!

Race had gotten about ten minutes into his physics project, which was horrid because angular momentum was stupid and unimportant anyway, when his phone rang. That was strange mostly because he rarely, if ever, got calls anymore; chalk it up to the twenty first century mentality or whatever bullshit his professors had been preaching at his classes lately.

Reluctantly setting down his pen and mumbling a few more steps to the problem he was working on before he tore his eyes away from the page, Race picked up his phone and frowned, it was Jack. 

Shrugging, he pressed the button to answer it and pushed back on the floor so the chair he was in rolled out from his desk. “Hello?”

_ “Race?” _

“Yes,” Race answered, tilting his head backs and looking at the ceiling while he spoke. “What’s up?”

_ “You heard from Spot today?” _ Jack asked, and his voice sounded the way it did when he hadn’t slept in a while, sort of stumbling over itself.  _ “Or seen him?” _

Concerned now, Race stood up from his chair and started pacing, a habit of his. “No? Why, is something wrong?”

_ “It’s uh, no, I don’t think, I don’t _ know,  _ actually _ . _ ” _

“Okay,” Race drawled, not quite sure what to make out of Jack’s voice but he was  _ worried _ . “I’m confused, then.”

There was a silence on the other end of the line for a moment, and Race could practically see Jack biting at his nails like he always did when he was nervous, he just wished he would  _ say something _ already. 

_ “It’s probably nothing, but he skipped class today, and I know you guys didn’t actually see each other yesterday because you had that interview, but he looked weird? I guess?” _

Race hated interacting with Jack sometimes, because as much as he loved the guy it took him forever to get to the point, even more so when he was nervous. “Weird how?”

_ “Like _ really  _ tired, and quiet, and like he was coughing a lot so just sorta sick, I guess?” _

Race raised his eyebrows at that one, never having seen Spot get sick, but definitely having heard him brag about that fact. “Sick? You sure?”

_ “Well, I don’t know for sure, but Davey saw him too and said he looked sick, and then I stayed up last night looking at symptoms because El seemed sorta off too, and-” _

“Jack?”

_ “Yeah?” _

“I’ll go check on him,” Race said lightly, like he was speaking to a kid, which it really felt like he was. “Just please go take a nap or something.”

Jack sighed audibly into the phone and Race grinned despite himself. _ “Yeah, Davey said the same thing.” _

Pressing the phone between his shoulder and his ear, Race grabbed his keys and jacket from his desk and started for the door. “Where would you be without us, huh Jackie?”

“Shut up.”

* * *

 

Pulling his key out of the lock, which Spot still hadn’t gotten fixed so the thing jammed, Race pushed open the door to Spot’s apartment and stepped inside. 

“Spot? You here?” Race called, voice dying out at the end though because the place was a  _ mess _ . Like it looked like someone had robbed it and then also died at the same time. Which was strange, because Spot’s roommates were kind of slobs, but Spot himself was a neat freak. “Are you dead?”

There was a grunt from the back room, Spot’s, at that, and Race made his way over the piles of clothes and sprawled out books and such to follow the sound.

“That doesn’t really tell me if you’re dead or not,” Race said, finally pushing open Spot’s door and blinking quickly at the sudden lack of light; he had all the shades drawn. “What the hell?”

The lump of blankets on Spot’s bed twitched slightly and Spot peeked his head out to look at Race, curls sort of all over the place and deeply contrasting the pallid color of his skin. “‘M fine.”

“Clearly,” Race said walking over quickly and kneeling down in front of the bed. “You’re sick.”

Spot normally would have rolled his eyes, and the lack of that gesture tipped Race off to how sick he actually was, but instead he just sighed and buried his head in his blanket again.

“Barely.”

His voice was muffled and small, and so very un-Spot sounding that Race actually chuckled a little bit, getting Spot to raise his head and glare. 

“Is this funny to you?”

Race shrugged, taking the opportunity to feel Spot’s forehead, which was burning up. “You have a fever.”

Spot looked like he was going to come back with his usual curse-filled insult, but squeezed his eyes shut before he got the chance too, and Race saw him shiver.

“Okay, that’s it, I’m gonna stay here and help you,” Race said, standing up and ignoring the groan of protest from the bed. “I can clean up, too. The place is a mess.”

“You have work,” Spot said softly from the bed, and when Race looked back he had curled farther into the blankets, much less intimidating than normal. “And class tonight.”

“Didn’t wanna go anyway,” Race answered over his shoulder, already halfway out the door to look for some flu medicine, and dialing up his manager to call off. This could count as a medical emergency if he phrased it right.

* * *

 

Turns out Spot and his roommates had all decided that getting sick was some sort of anomaly that only happened to other people, and had absolutely no medicine or painkillers of any kind. So, Race had given Spot a glass of 7-Up and ran off to the drug store, promising to be back within the hour.

And, as he got his damn key stuck in Spot’s front door again, he had probably undershot how long the trip would take; he just kept seeing soups and those candles with the saints on them that Spot talked about his mom using, and he got distracted. 

“I’m back,” he shouted, closing the door behind him and putting his bags down on the counter. He’d managed to get all the dirty dishes and gross food  _ things  _ into either the sink or the garbage, and had just thrown all Spot’s roommates shit into their rooms. He didn’t like them very much anyway, so it felt more like he could breath when he walked in. 

There was another groan from Spot’s room, and Race poured the can of chicken noodle soup he’d bought into a bowl and put it in the microwave before heading for Spot with the rest of the stuff. 

“Sorry I took so long,” he said, sitting down on the floor next to Spot’s head again. “But I got you Vicks and those candles that you say are magic or something.”

“Don’t disrespect the candles,” Spot mumbled, blinking blearily at Race, eyes bloodshot and clouded. “I feel sick.”

Race hummed and felt his head again. “You are babe, your fever hasn’t broken yet.”

Spot let out a whine, and Race raised his eyebrows, genuinely having never seen him this openly vulnerable before, it had to be the fever. 

“I’m cold.”

“Okay,” Race said, starting to pull back at Spot’s blanket when his hand was weakly shoved away.

“‘M hot, too.”

Off reflex Race rolled his eyes and stood up, pulling one of the candles out with his lighter and setting it on the desk. “I’m gonna get a rag for your head, have fun with the candles.”

“They work,” Spot whispered, eyes focused lazily on the flame Race lit as he shivered again. 

Race, who had admittedly had never taken care of a sick person by himself, and honestly, was getting pretty worried. But it would be fine, right? He could do it by himself.

* * *

Okay so, the soup hadn’t been the best idea, as Spot had taken a bite or two before throwing up, thankfully into the trash can Race had thought to put by his bed. Apparently Race had looked horrified, and Spot in his fevered state managed to get out that he ‘felt better now’ before falling immediately asleep. 

If it weren’t for pride he might have actually called Davey. But instead he called the much worse and more irresponsible version of Davey, and was on the phone with Jack for the second time that day. 

“I don’t know what to do, he threw up and then fell asleep, but he still has a fever,” Race said, pacing around Spot’s living room and throwing glances back to his bedroom door. 

_ “Did you give him the flu medicine?”  _

Race bit his lip and nodded. “Yeah, he got it down fine.”

_ “Okay well, I think you should just stay with him then,” _ Jack said, oddly calm in contrast to his earlier state, Davey had probably gotten him to take a nap finally.  _ “When Crutchie used to get sick I’d just sorta sit with him after he got medicine, I don’t think you can do much besides that.” _

Race knew he was right, and took a deep breath. “Okay, yeah, you’re right. He’ll be fine, right?”

_ “Yes, he’ll be fine.” _

“Okay, thanks Jack.”

_ “No problem, call if you need anything else.” _

“I will.”

Just as he hung up, there was a weak cough from Spot’s room, and Race hurried in to see Spot propped up on the bed, and actually drinking the 7-Up he’d left out. Probably a good sign.

“Hey, you look a little better,” Race said, taking the glass and putting it back on the table when Spot looked done. “ _ Feel _ any better?”

Spot shrugged and coughed again. “Less cold.”

Race nodded and sat at the foot of the bed, tilting his head when Spot looked up at him and then back down quickly, playing with the frayed edge of his blanket, and looking almost timid.

“What is it?” Race asked, still not quite used to the much softer sick version of Spot.

Shrugging, Spot looked up again and sighed, chest shuddering as he did. “It hurts to breathe, sorta.”

“Oh, okay,” Race said, still not really getting it. “Do you want some tea? I heard that if I put like, honey in it that might help.”

Spot shrugged again and looked at the thing of Vicks that Race had left on the table and then back at him. “I dunno.”

It finally clicked, and Race rolled his eyes and reached for the container. “You’re sort of a baby when you’re sick, you know that?”

Grinning the slightest bit for the first time that day, Spot pulled off his shirt, with only a little help from Race and laid back, still looking a little embarrassed. “Never been sick without my Mom before, she always used to do it.”

Softening at that, Race hummed a little and rubbed the ointment on Spot’s chest. He’d never actually used the stuff before, but Jojo swore by it, and he’d heard Spot mention it a few times before. 

“Does that feel better?” Race asked after he’d put what was hopefully the right amount on.

Spot nodded, eyes slowly blinking down and staying there. “Yeah, thanks.”

“No problem, get some sleep,” Race said, feeling more confident now then when he’d first hung up with Jack. Spot did look a lot better. “Call if you need anything.”

He turned back when there was something like a whimper from the bed, and he looked to see Spot blinking at him. “Can you stay in here?”

Race nodded and started to sit back down on the floor. “Oh, yeah-”

A hand gripped his arm before he could, though, and Spot nodded to the other side of the bed. “You can sit up here if you want.”

It was more of a question despite the way it was phrased, and honestly Spot looked like was almost giving him that puppy-dog looked he claimed he  _ never  _ used. So, Race bit back a smile and, contagiousness be damned, walked over to the other side of the bed and laid down next to Spot.

“That okay?”

Spot nodded and shifted so that they were shoulder to shoulder. “Yeah, can you play something on your phone?”

Pulling up Netflix, Race pretended not to notice the way Spot leaned into him, almost curled around him actually, and pulled up an episode of  _ The Office _ . 

When he started to ask Spot if the show was okay, he saw he’d already fallen back asleep, head on Race’s shoulder. 

“Big baby,” he muttered fondly, brushing some of the hair out out of his eyes. If he wasn’t sweaty and gross and sick, he probably would have kissed him. It’s not like Spot would have remembered it anyway. 

**Author's Note:**

> i am definitely eating a bowl of chicken noodle soup as i write this,, and i hope the Spirit of sick spot was transferred onto yall as well :)
> 
> as always, kudos/comments make my day!!!


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